Muse
by Ally W
Summary: Pre-Message. Suzunagi's father is on the verge of compiling a play based on strange visions that have plagued him. As he and his wife discuss the meaning behind the dreams, they reflect on their present, the future and their daughter. One Shot.


Disclaimer: _"Yoroiden Samurai Troopers: Message"_ and the characters of _Suzunagi _and _Suzunagi's Parents_ are copyright by Sunrise ©.

Note: This is based purely of a fan speculation about how Suzunagi's father may have created his play.

* * *

The flame from the oil lamp flickered energetically, causing the shadows that were cast from its light to dance on the wall. The moving and swaying brought to the man's mind an image of a kabuki play, at first. Then they formed into the shadowy images of puppeteers. Chuckling softly to himself, the man lowered his eyes from the wall and focused back to the task on hand. He rummaged through a pile of cotton papers on his desk until he came to an image of an armor-clad samurai. The form of the warrior was very regal, a sword clasped in each hand and shoulder reared for battle. How fluid the image was, however the warrior was missing just one thing; the chiseled lines of facial features. 

"Whatever shall we name you, my friend", the man quietly mused to himself as he tapped the end of his writing brush on the rim of his ink bowl. How he hated when his thoughts failed to come. As if they put themselves just close enough so he could reach them, but leaving just enough room so that he could not. How common it was for creative thought to taunt the writer. But, then again, he knew that all great writers fell into the same trap. And, just like them, he knew there was a way out. But how? How could he capture the intangible and craft them into a thing of beauty; one that can be seen and touched? The man was so deep within his own puzzled thoughts that he did not hear the creaking of the sliding door as it was slowly being opened from behind him.

"Darling, you are still awake?" a voice quietly chimed from the silence.

The man abruptly turned around see a woman kneeling in the doorway, her hands resting on the sliding frame. She gazed at him with a look of both worry and confusion. The man's first reaction of shock was quickly replaced with a smile as he tucked his writing brush under his thumb and motioned with his fingers for the woman to come over towards him.

"My dear wife, come and see what I have been working on", the man beamed with pride as the woman slowly walked over towards his desk. "Granted, there is still much work to be done; I only have but a few measures of dialogue and a weak story. But, I think with the proper actors, this could bloom into a thing of beauty."

"I though you were working on the play about the Water Curtain?" the woman asked as she kneeled down on a cotton quilt, next to her husband.

"I will finish that one some other time." he replied as his gazed returned back to the drawing of the samurai. "This idea, though… it is one that I cannot ignore. Ever since my first vision came to me, it will not leave my thoughts. It's an idea that wishes to be seen, to be heard. My dear, this is truly an idea that calls to me."

"Visions that call to you?" the woman asked in a puzzled voice.

"Yes. You might think of this as odd, my dear. And I trust you not to gossip about such matters", the man look at his wife began to spin his tale. "For numerous nights, I've been having certain dreams. They are not just any dreams; pay this to mind—these are visions of epic proportions. Such as, on the first night, I saw a man with startling blue eyes that peaked out from behind a samurai mask. He was on the blood-soaked field of battle with the legendary Demon King himself. The man's eyes were tired looking, sad… he had seen all his comrades fall before the hideous King; and now he was trapped. But, just as the situation looked to be hopeless for him, the gray clouds above parted and a beautiful god came to his aid. Together, they fought back the Demon King. Then, as the god faded away into nothingness, he brought the samurai's friends back from the World of the Dead... as a reward for his valor."

"That truly is an amazing dream!" the woman exclaimed.

"But that is not all" the man continued. "The next night, I dreamt of a battle in which a warrior clad in blue was fighting a woman; not just any woman but a true female warrior. The next night, I saw a warrior monk. He was a gentle man, with hair as red as our daughter's, who was forced to fight to the death to save a woman chosen by the Goddess of Fate. And, every night, I have been dreaming such sagas. They will not go away, even when I wake. All I could do was to write them onto paper and muse over the meaning of them. However, I had a dream, this very night, which put all my questions to rest. I dreamt that I was sitting in the balcony of a theater, watching an armor play. On stage, there was a man—a samurai with a golden sword and white hair. He announced he was a warrior monk and wished for some guidance from the audience. All of the sudden, he looked straight at me and pointed. Then, as if by magic, I was suddenly on the stage. The man came up to me and stopped, still looking at me. I told him that I was but a humble playwright and not a man of guidance. But, he lowered his visor over his face and said; 'Write the legend anew'. Then, I woke up."

"That really is an odd dream" the woman spoke as she stretched over to her husband and placed her hands onto his shoulders. "What do you think it meant?"

The man placed a hand onto his wife's and looked over at her. "I am not sure. But, for some reason, I feel that I should use my power of words to bring my dreams to life, to construct a play around them. "

The woman then removed her hands from the man's shoulders and picked out of his hands the sheet of paper with the ink sketched samurai scribbled onto it. "What is this, dear? Is this the man that you saw in your dream? And, why dose he have no face?"

Her husband shook his head slowly. "No, that is not him. That is the vision of the brave, blue-eyed warrior whom defeated the Demon King. As for his face… to be honest, I do not know what his true face looks like. His lacquered visor was down and therefore his identity is a mystery, all except for those blue eyes. He must have a strong face, though, like the great Jubei Yagyuu. Only a man with such resolve and spirit could wield swords in that manner.

"The Demon King legend…" the woman whispered as she placed the image onto the desk and slowly stood up. She gracefully walked over to the window of the workroom and leaned her shoulder against its wooded frame. She looked up to see the full harvest moon shining into the opening. Without breaking her gaze, she began to speak. "I remember that tale from my childhood; it was my father's favorite. It is a legend about a warrior monk and the Demon King. Long ago, a brave monk took arms against the Demon King, who wished to conquer mankind for his own selfish reasons. He fought with great strength and slew the King in a dual. The Demon King's spirit was not vanquished, though, and it vowed revenge on the monk and mankind. However, the evil King could not take revenge in his present form; he needed his body to complete his promise. The warrior monk knew this and took the monster's body, chopped it up into pieces and sewed nine suites of armors from the hide. Then, to keep them safe, he hid the armors so that the Demon King could not find them. And, as the legend goes, the warrior monk's armor is still hidden."

"I see…" the man though aloud as he glanced first at the pile of papers that littered his desk, then back at his wife. "Perhaps a little bit of this 'Warrior Monk's Armor' story may have somehow been fused into my dreams. Such things do, in fact, happen. But, why is my dreams of this so vivid? Why dose such an ancient tale call to me at night? Am I on the verge of a great epic, weaved by the Goddess of Fate? Or is it just the overzealous imagination of an insane, old playwright?"

The woman gazed at her husband, giving him a smile of pure compassion. "No. Do not ever think of yourself as insane. Perhaps… maybe a higher power is calling for you? Yes! Perhaps, they wish you to show the people of our era what all this unrest is causing. Great famines, revolts, displaced people… even the mistrust that our own Shougun holds. All of this has erupted into violence already. Through all the tragic events that our days have witnessed—people have all but forgotten just what true compassion, integrity and good is. And besides, dose not the moral of the "Demon King Legend" state that hateful monsters come out of misery and mistrust? Maybe… this higher power wants you to change the hearts of our countrymen; change them from monsters and into the peaceful people we once saw in the beginning. Not through swords and violence, but through the peaceful nature of written words…" the woman began to trail off as she turned back towards the window and bowed her head. In her fingers, she clutched the bottom tip of the small, golden cross that was draped around her neck.

"How I have always loved and respected your conviction in that Western religion. No matter how much you try to hid it under silk robes and classical writing, it still makes it way to surface", the man stated as he got up from his desk and made his way over to his wife. He slipped behind her and placed his hands on her delicate shoulders. How he had always wondered how such a fragile form could bear the weight of such persecution. He looked at his wife's lower arm, which was uncovered from her kimono's sleeve, and saw a large bruise. How could her skin, which was smooth like fine china, bear the wounds of constant harm when her secret was found out? Not only was she married to a man who relished in Western ideals, but she was a Christian, too. Despite all of this, she always followed what was in her heart and that's what he loved in her. How he had loved that spirit far more then her physical appearance.

"How I worry for our little Suzunagi", the woman suddenly said as she looked up at her husband. "I worry for her safety in such a turbulent time. She bears the weight of her father's reputation and her mother's faith. I pray every night that she will grow into a fine woman, unmarred by the times she has been born into."

The man smiled as his gaze trailed off towards the full moon that was shining brilliantly outside the window. "I believe she will. I believe… no. I know that she will be a remarkable woman. Not only her, but all children in our era will. They will be the ones to help us."

"What suddenly brought out this kind of talk?" the woman said as she slipped out of her husband's hold and turned to face him.

The man let out a gentile sigh. "I did not tell you about the rest of my dream, my dear. Before the mysterious monk appeared on the stage, I saw our daughter. She was many years older, a beautiful young woman. She was standing on the stage, surrounded by many other people, both Western and Japanese alike; with fair and dark colored skins. They were all pushing the Demon King onto a trapdoor, which was then lowed—causing him to slowly sink out of view. The look on her face was that of happiness, as if all the people on stage who helped her were her friends. I felt that what I was seeing was how the children, including our own precious daughter, will somehow see things through and put an end to this cycle of bitterness. They are the ones that will defend and protect the future from such negative emotions. Perhaps, that… no…"

"Perhaps that what?" the woman asked in an inflective tone.

The man continued. "Perhaps, the warrior monk is trying to tell me that a peaceful future will be founded by our children. After all, they are still innocent; untainted by the lust for power, fame and material possessions. Maybe, their pure hearts will pave out a future that will be free from war and hate. Perhaps, free from the hold of the Demon King's curse."

The woman smiled as she lowered her head and shook it slowly. "We all know that 'The Legend of the Demon King' is but a fairy tale, after all."

"Sometimes, I feel… that he may, in fact, be real…" the man whispered as he placed a hand under her his wife's chin and lifted her head; kissing her softly on the cheek.


End file.
